


These Dreams Keep Coming Back

by danceswithhamsters01



Series: Reddit Prompts [29]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Gen, Lost Love, Regret, Sad, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:36:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithhamsters01/pseuds/danceswithhamsters01
Summary: Based on a prompt from r/dragonage.Ser Cullen never expected to fall in love when he was assigned to his first post in a Circle of Magi, but he did. Unfortunately, the Fifth Blight and Uldred had other ideas, causing the romance between the young templar and the first enchanter's apprentice to come to a painful end. Dreams about that era continue to haunt him even after he is reassigned to Kirkwall's Circle of Magi, the Gallows.





	These Dreams Keep Coming Back

_**Prompt 3:** The worst part isn't the nightmares, it's the good dreams you wake up from, only to realize they weren't real. That they never will be again. _

 

The way that she pressed the pad of her index finger to her lower lip while considering her move was both entertaining and distracting. He was swept up in the memory of how soft those lips felt against his own earlier that day when a polite cough pulled him back into the present. Her eyes twinkled with amusement when they captured his gaze. _Caught you,_ they seemed to say.

 

His cheeks went rosy as he gave a weak smile in reply. His eyes took in the state of the game on the table between them. Two sets of carved beasts were scattered across the grid that made up the board; one set made of a blond maple and the other crafted from dark cherry wood. He had played this game often with his sister when he was a child. It was something entirely new to the pouty-lipped young lady seated across from him. Upon discovering the neglected game in storage, he’d happily offered to teach her how to play.

 

He picked up a piece depicting a bear reared up on its back legs and moved it forward several squares, coming to a stop on the same row as a delicately carved cherry wood swan on her side of the board. He smirked. Victory was imminent. They were on their third game that afternoon. She’d won the first match mostly by beginner’s luck. That, and he’d been going easy on her. With a victory apiece, the result of this game would determine who would win their little wager.

 

Dainty fingers plucked up a cherry-toned carved tortoise and moved it in an L-shaped pattern, landing between the delicate swan and the blond wooden bear that was “hunting” it. He grinned. The little wooden reptile was only delaying the inevitable. Strong, callused fingers moved the bear over the tortoise, eliminating it from play. It was now right next to the swan.

 

“I’ll have you in three moves,” he said with a chuckle.

 

“We shall see about that,” she countered playfully.

 

The cherry swan moved diagonally two squares. It was taking refuge beside a tiny mabari. Two turns later saw the tiny mabari vanquished by a maple swan. One turn later found the cherry swan left with no escape routes. She gently laid the swan piece on its side, conceding the game.

 

“So it seems you’ve won, again,” she said, eyes playfully betraying the mournful tone of her voice. She stood up from her seat and had a luxurious stretch of the arms. “How are you going to collect your prize, hm?”

 

The Knight-Commander wasn’t in the tower that day, which made for one less thing to worry about on his part. Her master would not be demanding anything of her that day; it was Sunday, the day of the week given over to Chantry sermons, chores, and rest. Even if it was a Sunday, they still took precautions and met at discreet, out-of-the-way hiding places.

 

The young templar smiled and stood up, pulling the apprentice close. Gently tilting her chin upward with a finger, he spoke, “Oh, probably like so,” and promptly stole a kiss. A giggle bubbled up from her throat as she humored him, fingers weaving in his golden curls.

 

His eyes opened, and he found himself in his quarters and not in the arms of a certain young mage who had gone on to become a Grey Warden and saved the kingdom from the Blight. He blinked several times while trying to steady his breath. The smell of the sea, desperation, and fish assaulted his nose, abruptly reminding him that he was in The Gallows, not Kinloch. Ferelden’s Circle had never stank in the special, appetite-murdering way that Kirkwall’s did. A dream, it had been a dream. With a grumble, he sat up and scooted to the edge of his bed.

 

He scrubbed his face with a hand. Most dreams of the past involved being tortured by demons or watching helplessly as his fellow templars were torn apart by abominations. The nightmares were always awful, there was no denying that. As much as the nightmares tormented him, they weren’t the worst thing, not by a long shot. The good dreams hurt worse. Waking up to find they weren’t real, that they could never be real again? Agony.

 

Her last words to him before she left the Circle had been “I love you.” The Warden-Commander, Duncan, conscripted her and took her away to Ostagar. When the few survivors made it back to the Circle after the stunning defeat of the king’s army, word had been that all of the Grey Wardens had perished. He’d wept the moment he was alone. And then Uldred and his cronies started their rebellion.

 

What did he do, what did he say when she appeared again; fighting her way through the undead, demons, abominations and blood mages in the tower with just Wynne, another Warden, an elf and a giant accompanying her? He snarled, he called what they’d had a “sin.” Unkind things flew freely from his mouth, raining down undeserved wrath and scorn. To top off his brilliance? He tried to convince her to murder her own kind, to allow the man she saw as a father-figure to die. He’d never witnessed a heart breaking in front of him before that.

 

When she and her comrades came limping out of the Harrowing chamber later, the battered but still living First Enchanter leaning on both her and Wynne, he should not have been surprised that eyes that used to gaze at him in adoration burned with contempt when they landed on him. He had done that, his words had taken the softness away and replaced it with spikes.

 

“Mages cannot be treated like people. They are not like you and me. They are weapons. They have the power to light a city on fire in a fit of pique.” He’d said that to the adventurer going by the name of “Hawke,” when she’d confronted him the previous day. Perhaps if he said that often enough, it would make it true. If mages were not people, then it would mean he hadn’t broken a heart, hadn’t shattered someone’s trust. Hawke had glared at him in disbelief. She had eyes the exact same shade of silver as Warden Amell, a fact that made him a little bit uncomfortable.

 

The Knight-Captain pushed himself off the bed and lumbered away to wash and get ready to face whatever the day had in store.


End file.
